


Chained to You

by fojee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mpreg, Not Epilogue Compliant, Unhealthy Relationships, eventual kidfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24032110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fojee/pseuds/fojee
Summary: After the war, Draco Malfoy lost everything. He's just trying to get it back.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 50
Kudos: 187





	1. Chance Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> Remember that cracky mpreg fic I wrote ages ago? I started this angst-fest at the same time, but it got very difficult to finish, so I am posting one part to get me to actually work on the rest. It will get worse before it gets better.
> 
> If you guys want this story (or any of my other stuff) tagged in any way that I missed, please let me know as I am horrible at tagging.

Draco's back slammed against the stone wall, and he had a jinx on his tongue, but the moment he opened his mouth, Harry's lips pushed against his, their teeth knocking together with a sharp burst of pain that turned into a different sensation: Harry's soft lips, and wet tongue, and hot breath. Draco must have hit his head too, because there was no way this was happening.

But it was. Harry's hands mapped his sides through his robes, and Draco found his own hands on the other boy's shoulders. His wand was still in his right palm. 

That's dangerous, he thought. Two wizards touching the same wand was a chancy thing. But his only option was to drop his wand, and that wasn't a good idea either, though Draco was hard-pressed to articulate why.

Harry solved his problem for him, grabbing his wand hand and pressing it against the wall. Draco hummed in approval. That was his last coherent thought for a while.

—

That was the year everything stopped making sense. 

Draco Malfoy knew who he was. Pureblood, Malfoy Heir, Slytherin Head Boy for their year, Seeker for the Quidditch team, and future member of Lord Voldemort's freedom fighters, who would put the ignorant mudbloods and mudblood-lovers in their proper place, and raise the Wizarding World back to its glorious state.

Sure, he never once managed to beat Hermione Granger's test scores, and Greg was a little dim, and Vincent a little bloodthirsty, and nobody outside his House respected him, and that stupid Potter would rather hang out with blood traitors, and Hogwarts was still run by a muggle-loving fool. But things would get better. He believed that.

Lord Voldemort was resurrected at the end of the Triwizard Tournament in his fourth year. And his father had promised him a chance to be a hero. 

Draco had been in the stands when Harry Potter returned with Cedric Diggory's dead body. He remembered the shock of seeing it, even from several meters away. While the Diggorys were not well-heeled, they were a solidly Pureblood family, having produced Quidditch players, broom-makers and Ministry officials for the last couple of centuries. And Cedric was fit. And a nice guy, even to Slytherins. If Potter hadn't somehow bamboozled the Goblet of Fire, and stumbled his way through the competition, Cedric would have made a great Hogwarts champion. It was a little sad that he hadn't lived long enough to enjoy it. 

It was the first dead person he had ever seen.

But Draco's father had taught him that they must sacrifice small things for a bigger goal. Cedric was just the first collateral damage. And when people finally wised up and chose the right side, then they would be safer. 

That summer, he had stopped reading the Daily Prophet. His mother commented on his loss of appetite, but he just blamed it on the heat. 

Fifth year started, and he saw Harry Potter again, purple bags under his eyes, mouth in a scowl. 

Through the school year, the eyebags remained. As did the scowl. Draco insulted him like always, but for some reason, he found himself choosing his words carefully, avoiding any mention of Diggory, any mention of Lord Voldemort. 

It was disquieting. 

His little taunts usually ended in some hexing. Potter was fast and his magic strong, but he knew far less spells than Draco, so when he lost his temper, his next move was easier to predict. Sometimes, he even threw away his wand and just knocked Draco over. It hurt, but it was funny too. Harry Potter, most famous wizard of Britain, and he would rather use his fists than cast a spell. Those muggles really did a number on him.

Their last fight ended in detentions, which they both served with Professor Snape. Draco usually didn't mind those, but since Snape hated Potter, they both had to go through a vat of lacewings to separate wings and devein the slimy little bodies. Neither of them spoke a word to each other all night.

How they went from that to this, Draco did not know. 

—

Sex happened pretty quickly when they're both fifteen. That first time, neither of them had a chance to take off any clothes before they both climaxed against each other.

Afterwards, before it had a chance to get awkward, Potter had already snarled into his ear, "This never happened." Then walked away.

Draco vanished any fluids before his clothes could stain. Potter probably didn't even know that spell, and the thought of the other boy walking like that all the way to the Gryffindor dorms set him snorting.

But the chuckles died away. He could just imagine what his father would say. 

Maybe Potter was right. This... thing should never have happened. And there's no way it could happen again, could it?

—

It could and it did, and the next time, Draco made sure he was the one pushing Potter, the one wringing delicious noises out of the other boy's mouth. It felt like another fight, but neither of them were holding their wands, and Draco was too busy cataloguing Potter's reactions to think.

His body felt hijacked by the sensations. And any words he wanted to say to Potter, he telegraphed in bruising touches, or with his teeth and tongue against the thin flesh of Potter's neck, that spot under his ear, the bottom of his lobe, a freckled shoulder...

This time, Potter didn't bother to speak to him after. Draco vanished both their bodily fluids with a flick of his wand. They stared at each other for a second, before Potter turned away.

No words, but Draco could still read that gaze. It said, This changes nothing.

And it doesn't. It won't. It can't.

—

The first time he met the Dark Lord’s gaze, it set off an alarm deep inside him. 

“Bow down before me, and receive my gift.”

He bent to one knee, showing nothing on his face, except for a careful mask of blankness tinged with awe and fear. The fear overcame everything when the Mark was placed on his forearm. 

It burned, soul-deep. And he knew right away that it was a mistake.

—

Children should not have been involved in this war. But they inherited the mistakes of their elders. Minerva McGonagall sat through the trials for every Hogwarts student, no matter her personal feelings. Many were pardoned, depending on known spells they had thrown in the final battle. But none escaped punishment.

Especially not Draco Malfoy. Lucius had perished to a stray curse. Narcissa had quickly left the country, abandoning both her son and her name. Out in the continent, Narcissa Black was a beautiful widow accruing admirers wherever she went. But Draco stayed. With a Dark Mark on his arm, he could not deny his allegiance. Although his wand did not reveal anything stronger than a  _ Stupefy _ , he was the one who had betrayed the castle, and he was present while his aunt tortured prisoners at the Malfoy Manor. 

The pompous man on the dais wearing a blue wig spoke. “Poison passed from father to son, but cannot be allowed to pass further. The Malfoy estates and vaults will be confiscated, and locked under a  _ Nomen  _ and _ Sanguis _ spell. Only an heir by name and by blood would be able to unlock it. And only if that heir proves worthy.” 

This particular punishment was invoked to undermine the Purebloods’ power base. Everyone knew the Malfoys had survived this long because of their extensive holdings. Draco, and the other Pureblood families on the wrong side of the war, would lose all the ground they had fought for in the last few centuries. Draco felt his heart pounding in his chest. Although he would remain free, this meant he would lose everything that made him a Malfoy. If he did not produce an heir, the line would die with him, the estates lost forever. Still, he deserved this much, and more. 

Minerva watched the young man close his eyes, but otherwise accept the verdict. 

Not everyone was satisfied.

—

The first assassination attempt came before the cuffs were spelled away. Draco doubled over as a sharp pain hit just below his ribcage. 

He barely heard the shouts and thrown spells, before he passed out. 

He woke up at St. Mungo’s. The wizard in healer-robes glared down at him even as he force-fed him a potion. 

“I would suggest, Mr. Malfoy, that you try your best not to end up in this building again. You never know what kind of contaminants could appear in healing potions for one of your kind.”

Draco flinched, before nodding.

Message received.

—

Two years passed in which the Wizarding World focused on rebuilding from the ground up. The side of Light had won, and yet it wasn’t really that simple, wasn’t it? The winners wanted to push for massive changes, but not everyone was willing to follow their lead. Tradition was still an important word. 

The heroes of today soon became the nuisances of tomorrow.

Harry Potter still found his name and face splashed on the Daily Prophet at the least excuse. He was an Auror now, but spent his time in the field dealing with the strong emotions of both his supporters and detractors. It was enough to drive anyone to drink, or to hiding behind the pile of paperwork at his desk.  _ Why not both? _ He asked himself, staring down at the flask of vodka that he kept in his bottom drawer. 

“You okay, mate?” Harry jumped, almost falling from his chair. Ron snorted at his reaction. “Sorry to have surprised you, Auror Potter.”

Harry glared at his best friend. “One of these days, I’ll end up hexing you, Ron.”

“But not today,” Ron shot back. “Are you gonna drink that, or would you rather go out with me to the pub?”

Harry shrugged. “Might as well. Wait, which pub?”

Ron smiled. “The muggle one I discovered three blocks east. They have this fruity drink that tastes like orange sparkles.”

Harry loved the anonymity of the muggle world, while Ron appreciated the novelty. There was always something new at those places, whether new food to try, new dance moves to imitate, or new girls to flirt with.

He had followed his dad into the Ministry, working for the Department of Games and Sports. He and Hermione had drifted apart after the war. Hermione had been too busy specializing in Wizarding  _ and _ Muggle law to really pay him any attention, and without the adrenaline rush of Death Eaters gunning for their lives, the relationship had died a natural death.

The muggle pub was crowded and noisy on a Friday night. Ron made a beeline for the bar, grabbing the first round. It was just the two of them tonight, though some nights, their group included other colleagues from the Ministry. (Corvey Bagshot, Titus Filch, and Harry’s partner, Elsbeth Wentworth.)

They were deep in their third round—and Ron was flirting with a muggle woman by the bar—when Harry felt a presence at his back. He looked up blearily. 

“Fancy meeting you here.” Draco Malfoy stood there garbed in a muggle suit. It was threadbare and ill-fitting, and Harry had to stare a little too long to make sure he wasn’t just imagining the other man. 

“What do you want, Malfoy?” He asked, after drinking the last of the beer. From Ron’s progress across the room, it looked like there wouldn’t be a round four. 

Malfoy sat at his table without being invited to. “I thought it would be nice to catch up.”

Harry scoffed at the idea, but then a passing waiter brought two more mugs of dark ale to their table. And he found he didn’t mind the company after all. 

He grabbed the beer and quaffed it. It must have been one of the fancy kinds, with an herbal aftertaste. “Okay. Catch me up, then.”

He and Malfoy made strange, stilted conversation and then the git apparated him home like some kind of Regency gentleman. He wasn’t drunk after all. He had built his tolerance over years of regular pub nights. Harry lingered on the doorstep to Grimmauld Place. Malfoy looked strangely reluctant to leave, and Harry smiled, sudden and shark-like. 

“Would you like to come in? I could show you some Black family… etchings.”

Malfoy’s ears turned red but he nodded. “That would be acceptable.”

Harry lowered the wards, and dragged the other man inside. As soon as the door was closed behind them, he pressed his whole body against Malfoy and yanked him into a kiss. Malfoy was stiff in his arms, but he kissed back and Harry made approving noises even as he slid his hands up under Malfoy’s suit. 

They somehow made it to the bedroom without tripping on anything. 

Harry undressed Malfoy and pushed him back on the bed. He was thinner, but perhaps that was the inches he had gained since the last time they saw each other. He let his eyes linger on the Mark, the only mar on the pale skin, and Malfoy turned away. 

“What do you want to do?” Harry asked, even as he unbuttoned his own shirt. 

“Fuck me,” Malfoy said. His voice trembled a little, which pleased Harry. 

He leaned forward and rubbed a finger in the cleft of Malfoy’s arse. It felt warm. Malfoy murmured a spell and the spot turned slick. Harry grinned down like a wolf, and scraped his teeth against one pert nipple while he pressed his fingertip inside. Malfoy’s hips bucked and he moaned. 

Then Harry nuzzled Malfoy’s neck and murmured, “I wanna hear you beg.”

Malfoy obliged very nicely.

—

Perhaps the biggest surprise of the morning was the fact that Draco Malfoy stayed. 

Harry woke up with a man in his arms, and he ran fingers through those white-blond locks and buried his hand into the hair at Malfoy’s nape. He felt Malfoy go stiff for a second, and heard the hitch in his breathing. 

“What? Itch not scratched yet?” He asked mockingly, fighting the impulse to snatch his hand away. 

Draco Malfoy took a breath before speaking softly. “I’m interested in a mutual arrangement.”

Harry waited in impatient silence for the other man to continue. 

“If you let me stay here, I can…  _ pay rent _ .”

Harry growled and pushed Malfoy onto his back, looking into his eyes. They darted around nervously. Malfoy was hiding something. 

“You want to be my little whore?”

The stark question made Malfoy flinch, and yet they could both feel each other intimately. Malfoy was already leaking, and Harry had hardened at Malfoy’s proposition. 

“Do that spell again,” Harry urged, without letting Malfoy answer. He grabbed the other man behind his knee and pushed it up, settling in the space between his legs. “Unless you want it rough.”

Malfoy looked up and kept his mouth shut. 

Harry leaned forward and bit those lips. And he pressed inside Malfoy, still a little loose from last night. Malfoy’s hands slid across his back. Harry set out a rhythm that was punishingly slow. He drove Malfoy crazy until he didn’t have to order the other man to beg. 

—

Kreacher prepared a lavish brunch for the master’s guest. 

Harry gave the groaning table a dark look. “I guess Kreacher likes you.” The elf had been better about serving him, but he still did the bare minimum most days. 

Draco didn’t comment. Harry raked his gaze over the other man. He looked impeccable as always, sitting straight on the chair, though Harry knew he must be feeling the aftermath of their... vigorous exercise. 

It made sense that Kreacher liked him better; Draco Malfoy had Black blood in his veins, while Harry only inherited the London house because it wasn’t entailed. The Black estates in the countryside were lost now, unless one of Sirius’ relatives changed their name and claimed it. 

He and Andromeda had talked about the possibility for Teddy to do so, but she didn’t think much of the idea. “He’ll have enough burdens, being the son of a werewolf. And the family seat is about more than land. There’s magical restrictions in place. He’d have to decide if it’s worth it when he comes of age.”

Harry realized another possibility. “You could have changed your name and claimed the Black estates, if you really needed a place to go.”

Draco looked horrified for a moment. “I have a responsibility as Malfoy heir.” He looked like he wanted to say something else, but stopped himself. 

“Your mother changed her name, though, didn’t she? Couldn’t she have done it?” Harry asked, trying to recall the last time he had read about Narcissa Black in the papers.

“The line passes through male progeny, unfortunately. Mother could technically hold it as regent if there was a young Black heir to raise up, but she had enough of children after my birth,” Malfoy rambled, then looked like he wished he kept his mouth shut. 

Harry blinked at that piece of information. Andromeda failed to mention it, but now he recognized the possibility she had actually been entertaining during their conversation. 

“So why aren’t  _ you _ securing the Malfoy heir instead of shacking up with me?”

Malfoy flinched, before clearing his throat. “It is necessary. For my survival.”

Harry scoffed at the stilted explanation but he let it be. For the moment. 

—

Harry’s new  _ arrangement  _ was certainly satisfying, except that he realized he would either have to stop inviting Ron and Hermione over, or come clean about Malfoy’s change of residence. 

It was a no-brainer which choice he would make. Maybe not that clean though. 

“He doesn’t have anywhere else to go.” Harry doesn’t quite meet his friends’ gazes. 

“You can’t save everybody, you know,” Hermione said. “He made his own choices.”

Ron made a disbelieving huff, but otherwise didn’t comment. Unlike Hermione, he knew exactly what Harry felt about Malfoy, and it wasn’t pity. 

Harry scratched the back of his head. “You know what he did during the war.” Malfoy had supplied them with critical information without officially joining their side. He had vouched for him during the trial, which was the only thing that had saved the other man from a Dementor’s Kiss. 

Hermione, usually the first to crusade for human and creature rights, had a blind spot when it came to Death Eaters. “Well, just keep an eye on him. You don’t want him to take advantage of you.” Harry suspected it was the PTSD talking, but he found it difficult to broach the subject to his friend. 

He made all the right noises. Before they left however, Ron clapped him on the shoulder. “Just don’t fall in love with the git.”

Harry flushed, but grinned at his best friend. “Of course not.”

—

Draco stared up at the cobwebby ceiling. His hands were splayed on his stomach. He was humming without realizing it. Then he heard the front door close, and his hands closed into fists. 

  
_ It’s worth it. _ He kept telling himself.  _ It’ll all be worth it. _


	2. Choice Truths

Harry let himself get complacent. It was kind of nice coming home to someone, even if Malfoy remained all snark and prissiness. That just made the sex better, because then he could shut the man up, and get him good and dirty. 

The weeks turned to months and they settled into something of a routine. Or he thought they did.

But then Malfoy started avoiding him, disappearing just when he’s in the mood, or turning away from him with some excuse. Harry gritted his teeth. “What’s the matter? Not gonna pay rent this month?”

Malfoy took a step back. “Just not tonight, please.” He turned to go, but Harry was faster, grabbing him by the shoulder.

“I think I deserve an explanation, don’t you?”

Draco’s breath hitched, and he chewed the inside of his cheek. Potter pulled him closer, then pressed a thumb on his lower lip. 

“The truth, Draco,” he whispered. It was the use of his name, which Potter saved as some kind of special treat, and Draco hated himself for responding.

“I’m pregnant.”

Harry Potter let go of him like he suddenly grew mould. “What?!?”

“I’m pregnant,” Draco repeated. “It… just happened.”

—

Except that Draco underestimated Hermione Granger’s research skills.

“The only way a wizard can conceive would be by deliberate introduction of a highly-illegal potion into both parents’ systems before they copulate.” Hermione’s voice squeaked at the last word, but otherwise, her eyes held Draco’s gaze. He read the challenge in them.

“Which means you planned it all, didn’t you?” Harry finished the thought for everyone in the room. His voice was bitter. “What? Were you thinking of trapping me in some sort of marriage? Getting me to clear you and reverse the court’s decisions on your house? How low can you get, Malfoy?”

Draco wished Granger of all people wasn’t there. She sipped calmly from her cup of tea while Potter shouted at him. And he found he couldn’t lie in front of her all-too-knowing eyes. 

“It’s not like that!” He said desperately. “I just…”

Harry’s hand was gripping his wand, though Draco didn’t know if he realized it. “What. Were. You. After,” he asked in a flat voice.

Draco closed his eyes. “I needed an heir to reclaim the estates.”   
  
“And you couldn’t just marry some pureblood broodmare?” Hermione interrupted.

Draco remembered the last time he almost died and flinched. “I thought if he were half-yours, he might actually survive to adulthood.”

“There it is. Trading on the fame of the Boy Who Lived.” Harry said in disgust. “I should have known not to trust you. What were you gonna do, sent pictures of us to the tabloids? Or were you just gonna blackmail me?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Draco argued, though he himself sounded uncertain. “I just thought he’d be safer, if he were acknowledged as your child.” 

“Good. Then that’s exactly what he won’t be. I, Harry Potter, relinquish all claim to any child by Draco Malfoy, and thus, relinquish all responsibility.” Harry crossed his arms even as his words caused a surge of magic to sweep over them both. “And I want you to get out. Now.”

Draco wanted to cry. There was a lump in his throat, and he knew that if he opened his mouth, a sob would emerge, rather than some brilliant and convincing argument. Maybe the tears would work, but one look at Potter’s hard face changed his mind. So Draco turned away, walking to the bottom of the stairs.

“Don’t bother grabbing your things,” Harry said, and wordlessly summoned the bag which contained everything he owned. 

Draco caught it, face reddening because while it did hold a lot more than it looked, the bag was looking threadbare. 

He walked out the front door without another word.

—

Most of his friends had already left for the continent after it became clear that the Ministry wouldn’t lift a finger if they got attacked. Draco thought of his mother.

Narcissa had made it clear that she was cutting off ties with him when she changed her name and moved to France. She had never been much of a mother, preferring to leave his care in the hands of house-elves. He thought of the house-elves attached to the estates. They were still there, though if left alone for long enough, they were liable to go mad.

He had six months of pregnancy left. And seventeen years after that, until his child came of age, and would be able to claim the Malfoy estates back from the Ministry’s grubby hands. 

Draco just had to survive until then.

Except he was just about penniless and pregnant and such an  _ easy _ target. 

He wandered aimlessly around London. He should have prepared for this eventuality. He underestimated Potter’s ability to hold a grudge. Imagine refusing to acknowledge your own child! It was unthinkable in the Wizarding World, unless the child turned out to be a squib. But one couldn’t tell until after they turned eleven. And even then, some parents held out hope…

Well, Potter had always been more muggleborn than wizard. And it was  _ his  _ loss!

Draco let that feeling of indignation enter his limbs as he walked onwards. Before he… finagled an invitation to stay at Potter’s, he had been living in a muggle bedsit that rented to foreign uni students. He wore a glamour to hide his features, and got away with not knowing how to use the muggle appliances. But even so, he could barely afford the rent. And he didn’t have the space to make his potions, which were his only source of income these days. 

There was a potions lab in Knockturn Alley that could be rented, but it was a dangerous place to be for someone like him. Auror crackdowns on the place made everybody nervous, and even his best glamours stopped working in the face of thick wards that now dotted the place. 

He couldn’t go back to either place. And potions fumes were not advisable for someone in his condition.

And yet when Draco looked up, he found himself at the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. He pushed at the door just a little. His stomach gurgled at the smell of roasting meat. He stepped in, mentally counting how many coins he had left. 

He put on a robe, covered his distinctive hair with the hood, and walked inside trying his best to look unobtrusive. He found himself a dark corner and ordered a bowl of the special. The warmth did him a lot of good. 

Then he reached for the tankard of pumpkin juice on the table, and it shattered, just as the snake-stone on the ring he wore lit up. 

Draco had the presence of mind to duck under the table even as Tom headed his way. Someone had just tried to kill him. And while it wasn’t the first time, it still set his nerves jangling. 

He dropped a coin or two to cover the food, minus a tip for the lax security, and tried for the door. Someone grabbed ahold of his cloak and he heard it rip as he pulled away and ran without looking back.

—

Harry usually spent time with his godson to unwind from work. Teddy, impish and happy-go-lucky Teddy, was a balm to the spirit, and a reminder of what he was fighting for as an Auror. 

But today it wasn’t working. 

“I should call it a night,” he murmured to Andromeda, who raised an eyebrow but let him go without interrogating him, for which he was grateful. He kissed Teddy’s blue-green curls and apparated to his doorstep, mind a million miles away. 

He caught a foot onto a big black lump right by his door. “Bloody he—” He thought it was a garbage bag at first. And then it breathed.

“You,” he said flatly, when movement revealed the body’s white-blond hair. He remained unmoved, even as a torn cloak uncovered Draco Malfoy’s pale, smudged face. “I thought I told you to leave.”

Draco didn’t bother getting to his feet, though he did raise himself a little on one shaky arm. “I know. But I don’t have anywhere else to go—”

“I don’t see how that’s any of my business.” It was hard to keep his tone cool, but Harry remembered the sucker-punch of learning he was being used, and it got easier.

“Please, Harry. I’ll do anything you want. Just please—,” Draco begged. 

“I want you to disappear from my sight,” Harry spoke deliberately. “I don’t want to ever see you again.” And he skirted past him and got the door opened and closed in record time. 

Draco felt something like a cold and wet brush travel down his body. But he ignored it, too busy being miserable. He leaned his forehead against the heavy wood of the door. 

But less than a minute later, it opened, and Draco looked up, hating the hope that rose up inside him. 

It was Kreacher, looking at him with piercing eyes. He gestured for Draco to follow him. 

Draco scrambled to his feet. He opened his mouth to ask where the house-elf was leading him, or why, but the words wouldn’t come. 

All the time he was living at Grimmauld Place, Draco hadn’t really explored the place. It was presumptuous to enter rooms without being invited to, even though he had to admit he was curious. His mother had told him stories of her childhood when he was much younger, bare of details, but clear warnings as to what she expected from her only son. And he also knew enough family genealogy to recognize the names on the tapestry that held the family tree.

Kreacher stood before it, face solemn. “I am sworn to serve the Blacks,” he whispered. 

Draco bit his lip. He understood what the house-elf was trying to say. “I did this so I could get back the  _ Malfoy _ family estates.”

“You said you wanted your child to survive,” Kreacher murmured.

Draco remembered the closest he had come to dying, several months after the war. It was a nasty spell sent through the post, which got set off too early, and killed the muggle postman. “Alright,” he finally said, bowing his head. “But even if I change my name, there’s no way the Ministry would grant me the entailment.”

Kreacher had a very low opinion of the wizards’ government. “That’s for your son to worry about. For now, you can stay here.”

“Your master just told me to shove it,” Draco retorted. 

“He said he didn’t want to  _ see you _ again.” Kreacher led him to the back staircase. “The house is big enough for the two of you.”

Draco followed the house-elf up the stairs without really understanding what he was saying. Kreacher took him up another set of stairs until they reached the attic. Boxes and trunks were piled haphazardly on top of each other. There were also oddly shaped packages and shrunken furniture covered in cloth.    
  


Kreacher snapped his fingers, and one trunk flew out of the pile and dropped to their feet. It was a faded green colour, and had tattered gold tassels. Below the handle was a metal tag with the initials LIB etched on it. 

Draco traced his fingers across it. “Great Aunt Lavinia?” He asked idly. She had been a traveling lecturer, if he remembered it correctly.

Kreacher nodded. “It used to be her Home Economics trunk. I’ve been keeping it up as best as I could, so there’s still some chickens and a couple of goats.” 

Food, Draco thought. Food he’d have to make himself, granted. But better than risking another poison attempt at the pub. Before he could reach for it, however, Kreacher cleared his throat. 

Draco sighed. “I solemnly swear that my name will henceforth be Draco Black, and I will take up responsibilities of the Black family as required.”   
  


Kreacher bowed to him, even as he felt something very like chainmail drop on his shoulders. Draco knelt down and heaved the lid open. The stairs inside were narrow, but he leaned over and took a deep breath. Smells of animal musk and growing green things wafted up to him.

He stepped into the box, letting the lid fall close above his head. The moment it did, Draco felt so relieved that he almost stumbled, one hand catching on the wall, upsetting a row of portraits from their slumber.

“Who’s there?” An imperious woman asked. She had silver-blond hair pulled up in a bun and was dressed in a violet day dress.

“Aunt Lavinia, greetings from your lowly nephew. I hope you don’t mind if I make myself at home in your little place,” Draco bowed as gracefully as he could manage. He knew he wasn’t dressed for polite company, just as he knew first impressions mattered when entering any wizard space guarded by portraits. 

Great Aunt Lavinia sniffed. “You must have Malfoy blood. I recognize that chin. Foreign upstarts. Alright, you might as well come down. There’s lots to do, especially in the garden. That house-elf was barely adequate.”

Draco held back a sigh of relief. He bowed again, before going down the stairs to a small sitting room. He knelt down in front of an empty fireplace. A couple of quick spells cleaned away old soot and he soon had a merry little fire going. Fireplaces inside reduced wizard spaces could not connect to the Floo, which made this trunk as secure as a warded manor. 

Draco unclasped his torn coat and hung it on a cloak stand. He looked around him. The sitting room was just big enough to fit a chintz-covered armchair and a tall bookcase on the opposite end. A porthole of a window revealed a hazy view of a fog-wrapped moor. 

He stood and opened the door perpendicular to the stairs, which led to a narrow hallway with three doors on all sides. One led to a bedroom, only a touch bigger than the sitting room, with a sturdy bed covered with a crazy quilt with faded charms. It looked particularly inviting, and Draco hesitated before letting himself succumb to temptation. Examining the rest of the space could wait. 

The blankets smelled musty and the room needed airing. But he was asleep before he could even think about complaining. 

Morning came too soon. Draco blinked up at the unfamiliar ceiling. The bed had no lumps and he wanted to stay longer, but necessity led him to discover that the lavatory and a round tub was behind the second door in the hallway. It had quaint goose-shaped fixtures but the plumbing worked well enough. 

The last door in the hallway led out to a garden. There was a separate building a few yards away, a greenhouse shaped like a pyramid, a hen house—which he explored and relieved of a handful of eggs for his breakfast, and a small barn facing the endless green fields. The world inside a witch’s bag was a fake one, of course. It looked like an untouched countryside extending as far as the eye can see, but if he squinted, Draco could see the edges of the space, an almost blurred line about half a mile away. The sky was real enough, but only because the area above his head acted like a window that directed the sunlight and clouds over another patch of land out there into this little spot. 

It was complicated magic. Draco had had a great grand-uncle who specialized in creating such spaces, but he died before he could take on an apprentice. So much older magic disappeared that way. 

He went back inside to look for the kitchen, but only found a serviceable cauldron and some utensils in a cupboard. Rudimentary and barely adequate for his needs but beggars can’t be choosers. And that’s what he was now. He cooked the eggs over the fire in the sitting room and sat down to eat.

He could manage with this much. He had to learn certain skills to survive the past couple of years. After centuries of politics, Hogwarts as it stood shied away from teaching the really useful stuff—whether magical or muggle—though they did turn out creditable scholars once in a while who can put things together through ancient wizarding texts, notes, and correspondence, or who had enough of a muggle background to pursue further studies there. But a scholar’s path was a peacetime pursuit. 

When Draco was young, he had fantasized about what kind of apprenticeship he’d have someday, but his father put paid to that. “It’s all about power, my boy. Nothing is more vital. Malfoys don’t work; we  _ arrange _ .” 

Draco stood up, making sure to keep the fire going, and walked out the far door into the illusory outdoors. He folded the sleeves of his robe carefully, and reached for a hoe. “I beg to disagree, father.” The ground needed loosening, and soon he’ll have another mouth to feed. He got to work. 

—

It was a small life. Draco had not realized how much he took freedom for granted even during the perilous time after the war. Now he could not even think of running away; there was nowhere to run to. 

In the beginning he felt restless. He exhausted himself setting the garden to rights. He cleaned out the entire house, much to Kreacher’s displeasure. He walked the edges of the space, marking where real land ended and illusion began. He wanted to run through the illusion even knowing he couldn’t. 

The set of rooms were adequate, but there was a dearth of entertainment. The only books in Great Aunt Lavinia’s library were volumes on animal husbandry, herbals, old almanacs, and the occasional bodice-ripper—though thankfully the figures on the covers no longer engage in lascivious acts, as the charms had already faded. Kreacher brought him some things from the Black Library, but could only give him one or two volumes at a time, lest they be missed; and Draco had to name specific titles for him to bring back. He longed to go through the shelves himself. 

Until one night, he resolved to do just that. 

He pushed the trunk lid open, breathed outside air for the first time in weeks. The air of Grimmauld Place smelt like a mixture of deep-seated dust, dried blood and smoky musk. But it still felt like a relief.

Draco stepped out of the trunk as noiselessly as he could. With one hand on the wall he walked down the attic stairs. The torches along the hallway flickered low. He pushed open the door to the library, holding his breath until it proved empty. The books on the shelves greeted him like an old friend. He let his fingers sweep across the spines as he walked around the room.

He picked up one volume, then another. Soon there was a stack beside him. It wouldn’t do to take them all, though, but he couldn’t help himself. He was paging through one book on top of the stack when he heard the doorknob turn. 

He froze, heart suddenly loud in his ears.

Draco dared not breathe as he turned around. Harry was standing at the threshold. He looked thinner, his mouth pressed like the edge of a blade. He was holding his wand, the grip loose but intent. 

_ Like in battle _ , was Draco’s distant thought even as he felt the blood leave his head. Black and red dots formed at the corners of his vision. 

He met Harry’s eyes. For a moment, time stopped. His heart skipped a beat.

Then those bottle-green eyes slid past him, settling on the pile of books beside him. Harry’s brow furrowed. 

“Kreacher?” He called out softly. 

The house-elf appeared with a pop. “Youse is wanting something?” He asked, tone blunt.

“Why are the books like this? Are you cleaning in here?” 

Kreacher glanced at Master Draco, face writ with terror. “Yes,” he said. “Books need airing, since you don’t read any.”

Harry sighed, picking up the book at the top of the pile and reading from the title page. Draco stepped back, but even though he must have made a noise, it didn’t seem to register to the other man.

“ _ Arcana Mundi _ . Not exactly what I would call light reading. And these days I’m drowning in enough paperwork to go begging for more eye-strain.” 

“Well some books need to be taken out and paged through, or they’ll get… restless.” Kreacher made sure the pause was ominous enough that Harry dropped the book, wiping his fingers at the edge of his shirt, a habit which made Kreacher wince. 

“All right. I’ll leave it all in your capable hands. As usual,” Harry said, turning with a casual wave of his hand.

Draco waited until the door closed behind him before he leaned one shaky hand on the edge of a table. “He didn’t…” His voice cracked before he could finish.

“Master Harry’s magic follows different rules. He couldn’t see you because he didn’t want to.”

Draco remembered that last time they spoke, the words Harry had said. He shivered, hunching over. The room suddenly felt too much. “Can you… the trunk…” He managed to say through the lump in his throat. 

Kreacher grabbed Draco’s arm and snapped his fingers. Draco found himself in the attic, the open lid of the trunk beckoning. He stumbled down the steps, and knelt by the fire, hand fisted at his heart. 

_ It’s safe here.  _ He repeated the lines like a mantra, until he could catch his breath and calm his pounding heart.

Kreacher brought him a mug of hot milk. “I’ll get you your books. There must be an index somewhere as well.”

Draco nodded, and let the drink chase the tremors away.

It would be years until he next set foot outside the trunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the first two chapters ages ago, and was in the mood to leave it at that for the longest time (with some domestic!Draco fantasies) so the chapters after this might be very different in feel... and the story has grown a little bigger than I intended. 
> 
> Thanks for everyone's comments, kudos and hits! And pre-emptive apologies if I'll make you wait a while for the next chapters. Hope everyone is staying safe!


	3. Child in the Attic

They didn’t have much in the way of toys for a growing boy. Scorpius Black relied on his far-reaching imagination to make up for the lack. Father, too, had to exercise his imagination every night when Scorpius would demand a new story.

“There’s only so many stories that I know,” Draco said, thinking of the war and all the silences that followed.

“You can make things up,” Scorpius told his father with exaggerated forbearance. “It’s not that hard.”

Draco brushed the black hair off of his son’s face. “Not for someone as smart as you.” But at the boy’s pout, he relented. “Alright. I will tell you about a giant. No, a half-giant..” He thought of Hagrid, one of many casualties at the Battle of Hogwarts. “He wanted to keep it a secret, because his wizard-father told him to, but he kept growing and growing, until it was obvious to anyone that he was not like them.”

Scorpius leaned forward. “Did they hate him?”

Draco bit his lip. “Some of them did. Some people are cruel to others for the slightest excuse. But there were others who loved him as he was. And he had a good heart, so animals knew to come to him if they broke a wing or sprained a leg. He looked after even the ugliest creatures there ever was. Because he knew what it felt like to be judged for your looks.”

Scorpius nodded solemnly. “That’s nice, but there’s no story yet.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “What?”

“He has to go on adventures. Maybe he gets into trouble in the forest and his animal friends rescue him,” Scorpius said. “You really don’t know how this works, don’t you? Maybe I should tell you a story, instead.”  
  
Draco laughed, kissing his son on his forehead. “Maybe you should, little one.”

Later, when Scorpius finally fell asleep, he tucked the threadbare blanket around the young boy’s shoulders. His hair was black, a little unruly, and so very much like his other father’s. But other than that, Scorpius took after his side. They had the same pointy chin, the same grey eyes. He wondered if that would prove a blessing or a curse.

Hogwarts was a spectre looming just over his shoulder.

There were potions, he knew, that could change the way his son looked permanently, that could make him unrecognizable, and maybe protect him from the consequences of being his son. But they all required highly restricted ingredients. And a selfish part of him protested at the mere thought. Scorpius was _his_ son. It was bad enough to have one parent deny him; Draco would not do the same. It was bad enough that he had had to give up his last name. He won’t give up anything else, not if he could help it.

—

Father was afraid.

Scorpius learned that fact even before he mastered his letters. Every night, Father had a ritual of walking clockwise from room to room, speaking protection spells. Kreacher brought him large books every few weeks or months that he would pore over, and there would be new spells. Sometimes they made the hair on Scorpius’ arms stand up. Sometimes, the back of his neck would itch, or he would sneeze and sneeze.

One winter, Scorpius got very sick. He didn’t remember much of what happened, just terrible dreams and his body aching. When he woke up, Kreacher was tending to him, muttering bad words under his breath.

“Where’s father?” He asked sleepily.

Kreacher just glared at him. Later, he found out that his father had collapsed. Kreacher had had to stick him to his bed and force-feed him, while taking over the job of tending to Scorpius.

Father was afraid, so Scorpius was afraid. He didn’t understand what he was supposed to be afraid of; he just felt it.

Still, the fear was just a feeling. And sometimes, Scorpius could ignore that feeling.

One night, shortly after Scorpius turned eight, his father was feeling under the weather and spent the day in bed. He was too weak to do his routine spells and even in sleep, Scorpius could read his father’s anxiety, so he thought he could do them instead. He slid Father’s wand out of his sleeve. The spells he had heard most often were song-like and he sort of knew the words, though he wasn’t that familiar with the wand movements. He walked clockwise in his father’s large steps and he repeated what he remembered, and when he reached the spot he started from, something felt different, so whatever it was must have worked.

But when he looked up, there was a set of stairs he had never seen before.

Scorpius’ eyes widened. Even though anything that was new was also scary, he found himself walking up the steps, to a door that was set in the ceiling, and he pushed it open, and walked out into a dark room.

Somewhere there was a source of light, and he could see that the room was full of odd shapes, some piled on top of each other, looking like monsters, like trolls perhaps. He was scared and wanted nothing more than to go back into the door, into the safety of home.

But along with the light came other things. A breeze wafted in, and it smelled like nothing Scorpius had ever smelled before: a mixture of smoke and rain, burnt meat and ozone. He found himself stumbling towards it, making his way past the looming shapes. The floor creaked beneath his steps, but he barely flinched, until he reached the sill of an open window.

There was a whole world framed by that window. Buildings beyond buildings. Lights so bright the sky looked robbed of stars. He gaped at it, and would have stood there the entire night, but he heard a sound behind him.

He jumped, whirling around with heart in his throat, hand still with Father’s wand, rising up defensively.

There was a boy. Black hair like his. Green eyes. A sharp little nose. He looked a few years older than Scorpius.

He lowered his arm slowly, then stiffened and raised it again, when the boy’s face _shifted._ His eyes turned silver and his chin pointy.

Scorpius gasped out loud, then clapped both hands over his mouth, dropping Father’s wand in the process. His mind raced through the creatures in Father’s books. Which ones were shapeshifters? How do they capture prey? More importantly, how can they be killed?

But while his eyes were darting around the room looking for something to use as a weapon, the creature across from him laughed.

It was a light laugh, a very human laugh, and not mean at all. The creature had doubled over, clutching its stomach.

Scorpius took the chance to bend down and grab the wand on the floor. “Who are you? _What_ are you?” He demanded in a trembling voice.

The creature straightened, face already shifting back to its previous features, though with green hair that matched its eyes. “My name is Teddy. I’m a metamorphmagus.”

Scorpius must have looked puzzled because it explained. “It means I’m the kind of wizard that can change my face without any spells.”

So not a creature, but a wizard just like Father? Scorpius had never heard that word, but he didn’t want to look more foolish than he already had.

Teddy looked down at his hand. “You’re a little too young to play with a wand, aren’t you? Do you even know any spells?”

Scorpius forgot he was supposed to be afraid. He straightened his back, glaring. “I know one to shut your mouth!”

Teddy laughed again then slid a hand into his pocket.

Scorpius aimed the wand at him, a jinx forming on his tongue. Just because the other boy was a wizard didn’t mean he was _safe._ But Teddy took his hand out again, then offered something to him. Scorpius looked down.

There was a round thing, flat on either side, with a piece of string sticking out from the middle. “Here. Do you want to play?”

Scorpius was wary of being tricked, but there was a note of uncertainty in Teddy’s voice. “What is it?”

“It’s a muggle toy,” Teddy answered, stepping forward and ignoring the wand Scorpius was still pointing in his direction. “I can teach you.” Then he slipped a finger into the looped end of the string and snapped his wrist. The toy rolled down and up, and the sides lit up in bright orange.

Scorpius flinched, but nothing else happened. Teddy did it again, this time doing something complicated, so the thing swung around, lights still blinking, then rolled right up into his hand.

Scorpius’ mouth dropped open. “Show me how you did that?”

Teddy smiled. “What’s your name, anyway?”

Scorpius opened his mouth, but there was something hard pushing at his chest. And the words wouldn’t form on his lips. “I can’t,” he said finally.

Teddy just shrugged, grabbing his hand and forming it around the toy. “Okay. Try it.”

But when he let the toy roll down the string, it didn’t go back up. Teddy laughed, which made him angry. “It’s okay. It takes a few tries. You need to do it faster. At least the first few times.” He removed the toy and winded the string up again.

“What is it, anyway?” Scorpius asked.

“It’s called a yo-yo.”

“That’s not a real word,” Scorpius declared loftily.

Teddy laughed again. “Don’t ask me. It must be a muggle thing.”

They bent their heads over the toy, and Scorpius bit his lip, determined to master this strange skill. Time passed quickly. Scorpius only realized how long they'd been playing when the sky beyond the window changed, and the strange shadows in the room revealed themselves to be boxes, coat racks, and other normal things under dust cloths.

The sight outside the window caught his eye, and he gaped at it again. The toy lay forgotten in his hand as he looked out at the view, tiptoeing to see further.

“You look like you’ve never seen London,” Teddy said behind him.

“I haven’t,” Scorpius murmured.

Teddy yawned, missing what he said. “It’s almost morning. I should get some sleep, or I might drown in my oats.”

Scorpius tried to hand back the yo-yo, but Teddy shook his head, which was back to black, but looked longer, the ends almost reaching his shoulders. “You keep it. We’ll play again, won’t we?”

“What’s your real face like?” Scorpius blurted out before the other boy could leave.

Teddy smiled at him, and his hair shortened, turning almost wavy. Both his hair and eyes turned a golden brown colour. He had an ordinary nose, and ears that stuck out a little. “It’s very boring, innit?” He asked.

Scorpius shook his head. “I like it.”

Teddy’s cheeks reddened, but he just ruffled Scorpius’ hair. “See you, squirt.”

After he left, Scorpius stole one last look out the window before retracing his steps. He hadn’t had the chance to look at where he stepped from, but now he could see that it was one of the few things in the room not covered by a cloth. It was a trunk, battered but solid-looking, in faded green with gold tassels and latch.

With shaking fingers, he lifted the latch and used both palms to open the lid. The stairs were still there, and he breathed a little easier.

He slid the yo-yo into his pocket, made sure he had Father’s wand, before stepping in, closing the lid behind him.

Before he could reach the bottom of the stairs, Father was there, arms wrapping around him desperately, until he could barely breathe.

“Never again…” Father was murmuring. “Don’t you ever…”

Scorpius laid his ear against his father’s chest, listening to the quick staccato of his heartbeat.

The next day, Father sat him down and told him about the world Out There.

Father had always been afraid, and now Scorpius knew why.

—

The strange boy didn’t show up in the attic the next night. Nor the night after that. Teddy almost thought he had dreamed the whole thing up, but he couldn’t find the yo-yo that was a present from Grandpa Weasley.

Maybe he had been some kind of ghost. Teddy remembered that the kid had been scared of him at first, and he snickered. He was off to Hogwarts soon. And he would have so much fun pranking people. He could not wait!

\---

Father didn’t bother hiding the stairs after Scorpius had discovered it. He just pretended that it wasn’t there.

But now that he knew, Scorpius could not help but wonder about that world. He had a lot of questions that his father could not answer. Kreacher was sent out for more books, this time muggle ones with brightly-coloured covers, and funny pictures that didn’t move.

On his ninth birthday, Father arranged a field trip with Kreacher. Scorpius understood how terrified his father was to let him go up out there again. But all he could feel was excitement. He was bundled up in a cloak transfigured into a muggle coat that almost dripped with protection spells, and a glamour was cast over his face, so he looked entirely unlike himself.

And then Kreacher brought him to the edge of a public park. There were some metal structures, with other kids running and jumping and sliding and doing all sorts of things. Scorpius hung back a little, just watching, until he felt Kreacher’s invisible nudge. He took a deep breath and marched towards the group. He climbed one structure and slid down the other side, and the feeling was like when Father taught him flying lessons. It was over too fast, though, so he did it again. Soon he was laughing and talking to the other kids around him.

He was bursting with stories when he got back home, and Father had baked him a cake with frosting. It was a Good Day.

There weren’t many of those.

Most days, Scorpius spent on his studies. English and Latin and some rudimentary Runes, Basic Maths, Dark Arts and Defence, Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, Astronomy, Penmanship, Wizarding History and Etiquette, and in between the endless chores required around the house. Milking the goats, weeding the garden.

On Better Days, his father would take him flying around the limits of their yard, which seemed to shrink every year. Sometimes, there were dancing lessons, which he pretended to hate, but secretly loved. 

—

On his tenth birthday, Kreacher took him to see the Black Manor. His father had told him about inheritance laws and explained the concept of entailment, but they were just words to Scorpius.

None of it was his yet, and he could only enter because of Kreacher’s magic. He wasn’t allowed to touch anything, but he met the other house-elves who looked after the place. He peeked into the library, the armoury, the enormous ballroom, the conservatory, and the kitchen.

The house-elves prepared a meal for him, which he ate out in the garden. It was well-tended, and smelled of rue and yarrow, but beyond its careful hedges, he had a view of rolling hills that were wilder, filled with tall grasses and gnarled trees.

“The Blacks used to have muggle tenants, farmers, but not in the last century or so,” Kreacher explained. “There’s a muggle village close by, but relations are… _strained._ ”

“Could they come back, do you think?” Scorpius asked.

Kreacher shrugged. “The land’s gone to magic, so it won’t be the safest for muggles to let.”

Scorpius would have said more, but there was a rustling in the bushes, and a small creature jumped straight towards him, yowling.

He yelped, arms raising to ward it off, but it ignored them, landing on his chest. He toppled backwards and lay on the grass stunned while the creature made itself comfortable and let out a rumbling noise.

It was a long-haired little beast, brownish-red, with a squashed face, and a bushy tail. The excess of hair made it look bigger than it actually was.

Scorpius froze for a minute, before carefully petting the beast’s head. It let out a noise very much like a purr.

“Oh,” he said, finally recognizing the creature from one of Father’s books.

Kreacher sighed. “We’ll have to talk your father into it.” 

Scorpius couldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day. A pet was the best present ever!

—

One night years later, an owl landed right on the trunk, pecking on the lid until Scorpius opened it. There was a letter in its claws with a familiar seal.

Even though he was expecting it, the sight still sent Draco’s heart sinking. He watched his son feed the creature, before letting it fly up and out the trunk.

He stood with arms crossed as if he was holding himself together through sheer will. “Beaubaxtons and Durmstrang will no doubt send their letters too. But Hogwarts will be more politically advantageous for you,” he said. “We’ll send our acceptance tomorrow. Then Kreacher will accompany you to the shops. We’ll have to get you your own trunk.”

“I’m taking you with me,” Scorpius said, chin tilted stubbornly.

Draco argued against it, but his heart wasn’t in the fight. He was worried about Scorpius, and grateful, too.

Later, watching over his sleeping son, Draco brushed the strands on his forehead, ignoring the glare of Ceres, who was curled up on top of the blanket. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t want to be a burden to you.”

—

Scorpius grew up surrounded by magical objects, but most of them were old, and the spells upon them had long since faded. Father’s layer of new spells was mostly for protection; he rarely bothered to refresh the charm of an old music box, for instance. The one mirror they had showed him various angles of his reflection on command but was otherwise silent, and the snake-headed spigot in the tub only gave a soft hiss when he took extra long in his bath.

None of it prepared him for Diagon Alley, where he felt the press of magic against his skin as soon as the brick wall opened into a doorway. The streets were bustling, filled with families and magical creatures. Shouts of laughter and loud conversations made his ears buzz. The smell of burnt sugar and wet owl feathers lingered in the air.

Scorpius froze for a second, before Kreacher tugged at his sleeve.

Father had explained to him that while he was still a minor, he had no claim to the Black family vault without permission of the current head. That meant they could scarce afford all that they needed for school. Kreacher had no qualms about stealing muggle books and other things, but there were limits to what he could get away with.

The obvious solution was a Hogwarts scholarship, to which they applied for and was granted. The money wasn’t much, but there were ways to stretch it. Secondhand robes, books and supplies, for instance. They already had a trunk, serviceable potion supplies from the kitchen, and a telescope that Kreacher scrounged up from somewhere. He had Ceres as his familiar, though he spent a good ten minutes staring through the animal shop window.

But the wand… well that one they couldn’t afford to skimp on. Kreacher brought him to a shop called Ollivander’s and he tried out what felt like hundreds of the bloody things, until one felt right in his hand, emitting blue and green sparkles when he waved it.

“Hmm,” the shopkeeper said, looking at him over thin-rimmed spectacles. “Beech and dragon heartstring. A fortuitous combination for a young lad. You’ll make your own destiny with it, I am sure.” 

Scorpius felt uncomfortable with the scrutiny, but the joy of holding his own wand soon overshadowed it.

—

The closer and closer to the date they were, the harder it was for Scorpius to sleep. He see-sawed between excitement and terror.

Father had taught him the feather-light charm, but Scorpius didn’t dare use it on the trunk. He didn’t trust himself to mess the spell up, so he used a trolley at the station. Ceres obliged by perching quietly on top. His cat looked very different from the creature he had met a year before. Her brown-red fur was sleek and shiny, though she still had a bushy tail and a perpetually grouchy expression.

Kreacher was watching somewhere, and the knowledge of his presence made it easier for Scorpius to push through the barrier at Platform 9 ¾ to the other side. The Hogwarts Express had just pulled in, and he breathed out in relief to note there were a lot of empty carriages left.

Walking among a crowd of busy muggles was hard enough. Father had cast spells on him, so people won’t notice him, but it didn’t help dispel his feeling of drowning in a sea of bodies.

He picked an empty carriage, stowing the trunk under the seat. Outside the window, teary-eyed families were saying goodbyes to their children. Scorpius observed them curiously.

His father had coached him about important families, particularly any of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and how he should talk to them, but he was more interested in watching people talk to each other. Some of the parents and the kids his age were blinking back tears. He felt a little guilty because bringing his father along was a bit like cheating.

There was a large group on the platform with predominantly red hair, so they must be the infamous Weasleys. They were loud and boisterous, and Scorpius found himself smiling at their antics. There were several adults, and children in a wide range of ages. He shook his head, thinking how weird it must be to be part of such a big family.

More and more people had boarded the train, and it soon pulled away from the station. Ceres was demanding ear scritches, and Scorpius was obliging her, so he didn’t immediately notice the door to his carriage open.

Two girls stood at the door. “Hi! Can we share the carriage?” One of them asked. “We just need to escape our overbearing siblings.”

She was a very pretty girl with strawberry blonde hair loose around her face, and Scorpius found himself nodding dumbly. The other girl had darker red hair, slicked back into a severe bun. She looked like she was part of the group he had been observing earlier. And in fact, the two of them had the same eyes.

“Are you sisters?” Scorpius was finally able to ask, though he clapped his hand over his mouth after.

“No, we’re cousins,” they explained, neither looking bothered by his rudeness. They introduced themselves as Dominique and Lucy Weasley. Scorpius shook their hands, giving them his name.

The two looked at each other when they heard it. “Any relation to Sirius Black?” Dominique asked.

Scorpius could recite his lineage back through thirteen generations, but Father had warned him to keep his parentage a secret as much as possible, so he just shrugged at the girls. “A distant uncle, I believe.”

They must have sensed his reluctance to talk, because neither pressed further. Ceres, sensing the mood in the room, jumped down from his lap and sashayed her way towards the two girls, who bent to pet her silky fur and make cooing noises.

“Oh, I wish I had a cat,” Lucy said. “But father thought an owl would be more practical.”

“Her name’s Ceres,” Scorpius offered shyly, relaxing a fraction.

He knew his father had prepared food, but he didn’t want to open the trunk in front of other people, so he ended up sharing the snacks that Dominique and Lucy brought with them.

Dominique smiled kindly at him when he grabbed what looked like a corned beef sandwich. “ _We’re_ okay, but you should probably be careful about accepting anything edible from a Weasley.”

Scorpius paused in the act of biting into the sandwich. He almost choked on a piece, before he asked, “Why?”

Lucy snorted. “You can just say his name.” She turned to Scorpius. “Our cousin Fred loves to prank people, and his father owns a joke shop. Consider this your first and last warning.”

Scorpius nodded. He had a lot to learn.

By the time they arrived at Hogsmeade Station, Scorpius was tired of craning his neck at the view outside the window. Dominique’s older sister, Victoire was the prefect to remind them to put on their robes. She was even more beautiful than Dominique if that was possible. Her hair shone like gold and she spoke with quiet authority.

When she left the carriage, Dominique made a face. “Isn’t she _perfect_?” She said in disgust.

Scorpius blushed, terrified that he had offended her, but she waved it off. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.” She took a deep breath. “I know one thing for sure; I’m _not_ going into Ravenclaw.”

—

The sorting was one of the things his father had been strangely quiet about. Scorpius had been given the run-down of the traits of each House and that was it. It took a lot of reading between the lines of contemporary history books for Scorpius to realize that the borderlines of the last war had been drawn almost entirely against one particular House. And that in the list of Malfoys and Blacks in his lineage, most of them belonged to that House.

“Scorpius Black!” Professor Flitwick called out.

Scorpius walked towards the stool with none-too-steady knees. He barely noticed the intense looks in his direction from around the room.

The sorting hat’s brim covered his eyes, and he waited, legs swinging, mind utterly empty.

_Ah! You don’t know which House to ask for? Unusual for a Black_ , the hat spoke into his head.

_I don’t really know where I belong,_ Scorpius thought.

_That’s a very Hufflepuff thought,_ the hat said. _But I think you’d make a fine,_ and it said the last word out loud, “Gryffindor!”

Scorpius nodded his thanks, removed the hat carefully, and headed to his new House table. A wave of whispers had broken around the room, but the professor had already called out the next student, “Teresa Chang!”

Scorpius clapped politely for each student’s turn, though he was a little more enthusiastic when Dominique got sorted into Slytherin, and Lucy into Gryffindor with him.

He scooted a little to make room for Lucy, but a tall boy with dark skin and curly dark hair snagged the back of her cloak and pulled her to the other side of the table. “I knew you had it in you, Lucy!” The boy told her, rubbing the top of her head with his knuckles, which loosened her bun.

“Stop that right now, Frederick Weasley!” She said through gritted teeth and tried to kick his shin.

Scorpius was a little disappointed, but soon the Headmistress was making a speech about new beginnings, and he struggled to listen through the rumbling of his stomach. Headmistress McGonagall enumerated the rules of the castle, which Scorpius memorized as best as he could.

“And finally, I would like to introduce our new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor and Gryffindor’s Head of House, Harry Potter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm barely half-way into the next chapter, so updates will take a while. Thanks for your patience! 
> 
> Anyone else feeling ambivalent about hp fanfic right now? I still want to get this done, but we'll see how I feel after. Also, I have chapter four plotted out, but chapter five is a big question mark. Why am I writing romance anyway? lol. Please ignore my existential crisis...


	4. Charge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your patience and your lovely comments! I may have lost a bit of momentum and got distracted by other projects, but I will definitely see this through. Also, maybe n3lo was right that 5 chapters isn't enough, so I'm leaving that up in the air for when I actually write Chapter 5 (and beyond). Hope you enjoy this installment, even if it's more of a transitional piece...

As soon as he heard the name Scorpius Black, Harry felt his hair stand on end.

He knew very well that Sirius had been the last Black before he died. And then he saw the boy. And he knew right away who he was. How could he not?

It took Harry about six months after Draco left before he could think past the pang of betrayal in his gut. Six months of working himself to the bone, case after case, until he practically slept at his desk. Hermione was starting to make these noises of concern that Harry was so good at ignoring, when Ron took matters into his own hands, dragging him to George’s place for a night of hard drinking and product testing.

George and Angelina had their own house in muggle London, warded to the hilt and regularly visited by overzealous Ministry inspectors—mostly Percy’s doing—as it was also where George’s lab was located.

At the door, Angelina greeted Harry with a punch to his shoulder and a nod. Their one-year old son, Fred had little use for words yet, but liked to zoom around the house like he had swallowed bees, so she had little attention to spare for the men trooping into her living room. And from the looks of him, George had started the party a bit early.

Harry soon realized why; the anniversary of the Battle at Hogwarts was in a couple of days. Everybody would be celebrating the victory, except for those still mourning their dead. Ron probably assumed Harry’s was suffering from the same ailment.

A drinking party in a Weasley household was always a risk, but quite different from letting his guard down in a Wizarding pub. Harry trusted the wards, and the men handing him drinks—more or less. He felt his ears grow after one purple drink but was otherwise fine. None of them were in a joking mood after all.

He drank slowly but steadily, watching Ron catch up to George. But Ron could hold his drink with the best of them.

But, well, they didn’t call it Dutch courage for nothing. Harry was a little over the edge of tipsy, and George was already passed out when he broached the topic. “I’ve been thinking about Malfoy…”

Ron let out a groan, but he set his tankard down and turned to face Harry, eyebrow raised. “About time, innit?”

Harry glared at his best friend. “What?”

Ron shrugged. “You held out longer than I thought.”

“You were the one who said he was just using me,” Harry retorted.

“Well, he _was_ ,” Ron said. “But honestly, mate, how else could it have ended with the two of you? Even with a kid in the mix, he’s not going to turn angel overnight.”

Harry had no answer for that.

“You haven’t gone and fallen for that prick, haven’t you?” Ron asked, a little less belligerent than he usually was.

Harry shrugged. “I don’t think so. I just feel responsible. No, I _am_ responsible. And it feels like a mistake.”

But saying it out loud was one thing. It took a few more months before Harry could talk himself into looking. He didn’t say anything to Ron or Hermione; he knew they knew and that was enough.

And by then, there was no trace of Draco Malfoy in all of London.

—

Harry had ample time to think about having a child, _his_ child, out there. Every moment he spent with Teddy felt like a treasure, but also like Harry was trying to fill a hole in his core, which wasn’t fair to either of them.

And when he got talked into taking the position at Hogwarts, a part of him was thinking, _maybe…_

Still it felt like a kick to the ribs. 

He stopped himself from craning his neck as he watched the child sit under the hat and be sorted. His features were Malfoy’s through and through, and it was like no time at all had passed since Harry’s own years at Hogwarts. But he could see nothing of the arrogance that Draco Malfoy had exuded when they met. Scorpius’ face reminded Harry of his own uncertainty when he first stepped foot here. He looked lost and wary.

When the hat shouted, “Gryffindor,” Harry could not help but feel a leap under his chest. Something like pride mixed with the intense curiosity being kindled there.

But he stopped himself from beaming. After all, what right did he have to be proud?

—

As soon as he could, Scorpius dragged his trunk up on his bed and spelled the curtains around his bed with a charm to deter people from even looking in his direction. His father had taught him that after he got his wand.

The other Gryffindor boys were already in their beds, though some were still whispering to each other, when Scorpius slipped into the trunk to meet his father.

Draco had been reading the same line for hours, his chair turned towards the door. He stood as soon as he heard his son’s footsteps. Scorpius ran down the steps and into his open arms.

Draco felt his shoulders relax a fraction. “Hello, darling,” he whispered.

Scorpius looked up at him—though at the rate his son was growing, it would soon be the other way around—and Draco read the fear behind his gaze.

“You’ve always been my brave one,” Draco murmured, understanding the reason for that fear. He had thought Scorpius would be just like him, but maybe a part of him was pleased that his son would have a different fate.

Scorpius gave him a weak smile. “But what if it was a mistake? I don’t really feel brave.”

“The hat knows you better than you know yourself,” Draco said, though he could see it would take more than his words to convince his son.

He laid both hands on the boy’s shoulder, pushing him just far enough to meet his eyes. “Now come tell me about your journey.”

There was a platter with milk and cookies beside his chair, and Scorpius happily recounted his train ride with Lucy and Dominique.

Draco suppressed the groan. Of course. It must be Weasleys.

—

Harry nodded at the gargoyle while ascending the stairs that led to the Headmistress’ office. He didn’t know what to expect of this meeting, but it brought back memories of being summoned by Albus Dumbledore for one of those cryptic chats that, in retrospect, was more evidence of the man’s gentle meddling.

After the war, he and Headmistress McGonagall had kept in touch, though mostly perfunctory twice-a-year missives about Hogwarts on McGonagall’s part, and polite iterations punctuated with the occasional humorous work stories on Harry’s part. Most witches and wizards still considered letter-writing as the only civilized way to converse, even if nothing beat firecalls for speed, and mirror-pairs could be enchanted by those with the know-how. But it had taken Harry a while to figure it out. In some ways, he was still learning things other witches and wizards took for granted.

Once in a while, the headmistress would offer him the position of Defence professor. They didn’t have the same annual turnover that they used to, but most professors still lasted only two to three years on average. Harry usually skimmed that part of the letter, except this last year, when his eyes had lingered on the words.

He cleared his throat, and the headmistress gestured at the chair across from her. There was a steaming pot—Darjeeling from the smell of it—and a plateful of nibbles. The room was much more orderly than when it used to be Dumbledore’s. He looked up at the paintings of former headmasters, but they were all deeply asleep.

“I prefer it that way,” Minerva McGonagall answered his unspoken question. “I occasionally appreciate their advice, but not on a day-to-day basis.”

Harry grinned at her. He understood that perfectly, having had to listen to his share of patronizing iterations of ‘my dear boy’ and ‘this is how it’s always been done, Mr. Potter’ at the Ministry. He took his seat and poured for them both.

“Any second thoughts?” McGonagall asked after they’ve taken their nibble of choice.

Harry snorted. “Were you expecting me to change my mind?”  
  


“Frankly, I didn’t expect you to say yes. I’m still pinching myself,” she said with a wry smile. She looked both older and younger than Harry was expecting, wiser and stronger somehow. She carried the responsibility well, though it had been quite a burden since the war ended, what with the need to rebuild the castle and regain the trust of so many parents whose children had been put in harm’s way.

Harry shrugged, unable to find the words to explain himself.

He had gotten a little too reckless on a job three years ago and landed himself at St. Mungo’s with a curse that took time to heal up. After that, the Ministry pushed through his appointment as Head Auror when he had been too groggy to say nay. The job was three-parts glad-handling the press, and one-part making his case to the higher-ups for more resources, and two-parts knocking Aurors’ heads together for making foolish mistakes. He had hated it with a passion, and he only realized it when the words in McGonagall’s letter reminded him that he had other options.

“It was time for a change, I suppose.”

“And what do you think of our latest crop?”

Harry knew better than to avoid her gaze, but he kept his face expressionless. “They look smaller than I remember.”

She chuckled at him. “Head of House duties will overrun you, so you need to establish some groundwork and rely on your prefects. There’s some interesting new names in Gryffindor,” she added casually.

Harry shrugged. “I have a class with them on Wednesday, so we’ll have to see.”

Minerva frowned. “You didn’t talk to the first years last night?”

“You didn’t talk to us, either,” Harry argued, though admittedly his memories of his years at Hogwarts focused more on the life-threatening bits.

Minerva shook her head. “I had other responsibilities then, though I suppose that sounds like an excuse now.” She mock-glared at Harry. “Do better than me, Mr. Potter. That’s an order.”

“Yes, Headmistress.” Harry inclined his head.

She patted his hand. “Call me Minerva.” When he gaped at her, she laughed. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it eventually.”  
  


“Never,” Harry said with a laugh, before bowing to her and taking his leave.

—

Harry marshalled his youngest prefects the following night. Iason Holloway was a fifth-year muggleborn, polite, with shorn hair and muddy green eyes and a Beater’s build. He looked older than his age, and a touch intimidating. Good for discipline, maybe not so good for comforting the little ones. His counterpart was Mimosa Glenwood, candy pink hair braided down her back, setting off the darker tone of her skin. She looked at him with naked curiosity, but kept her mouth in a cool smile, for which he was grateful.

“How are the first years doing?” He asked them awkwardly. “Settling in alright?” 

“They’re a quiet lot,” Iason said. “No trouble-makers so far, though you better watch the new Weasley.” He turned to the other prefect. “Fred will probably drag ‘er into trouble.”

Mimosa rolled her eyes. “I’ll see that she gets some sensible role models. They followed along the tour like good little lambs,” she assured Harry.

Harry rubbed his chin. “Did _your_ Head of House give you a speech when you were first years? And if so, I’d like to know what they said.”

The two exchanged looks before Iason shrugged. “’e was filling in for the year, ol’ Professor Quorum. Told us we’d be heroes if we were lucky. Put a sparkle in me eye.”

“He was quite the orator,” Mimosa said. “Other than that, it was just the usual office hours and talk to your prefects and such.”

Harry nodded. “Well, never mind the speech, but I’ll be posting my office hours in the common room. And please feel free to nudge anyone in my direction as needed.” He had already spoken to the upper year prefects.

Later, after the two had left, he paged idly through the Gryffindor Book. It was a massive thing, almost taking up the entire surface of his desk. It was bound in deep red leather with gilt edges. The Book was where Gryffindor Heads of House kept track of significant events, infractions and punishments, issues with students, all dated and signed. On a whim, he turned to his first year at Hogwarts. McGonagall—Minerva’s handwriting was an elegant copperplate.

_October 31 st, 1991_

_A troll has gotten past the wards. Potter, Weasley (R), and Granger encountered the creature in the girl’s third floor bathroom, knocking it out with its own club (wing. lev.)_

_Granger – 5 points deducted_

_Potter – 5 points awarded_

_Weasley (R) – 5 points awarded_

At the margins, in smaller writing:

_Traitor? – Check wards_

_New alliance? – Letter to parents_

Harry grimaced, partly at the thought of his Aunt Petunia learning about what had happened, and partly at the realization that this was going to be part of his tasks for this year. Surely it wouldn’t be so bad? Hogwarts had never felt quite that safe to him, but the war was over, so such incidents should be far behind them.

He flipped the pages toward the most recent entries and groaned at the tangle of entries, a great number of them about _Weasley (F)._ So much for his wishful thinking.

—

“Uncle Harry!” Fred Weasley beamed at him as soon as class ended.

Harry rolled his eyes even as he exited his classroom. “That’s Professor Potter to you, young man.” The passel of Weasley kids did have a tendency to call him uncle, but it always made him feel awkward, as if there were still expectations that he would marry Ginny and be an official part of the family.

Fred did not look anything like his namesake, resembling his mother more, but the expression on his face could not be mistaken as anything else: Trouble.

Harry had reread the incidents from the previous year more closely. Fred had gotten into a lot of fights, most of them with Slytherins. There were pranks as well, but there was a worrying element of humiliation to them.

Harry slung an arm over the young wizard’s shoulder. Fred was almost as tall as he, which was disconcerting. “I’ll be keeping a close eye on you this year, Frederick Weasley,” he said, warning in his tone.

Fred laughed, shrugging him off and turning to give him a wink, walking backwards down the corridor. “Sure, sure. I have nothing to hide, Uncle Harry. Nothing at all.” 

—

_Dear Harry,_

_I can’t believe I’m writing to you when you’re just a few floors away right now! Grandmum sent a package of the cookies you like, a hint that I’m supposed to invite you for tea, but I’ll have to fit you in my busy schedule._

_I can’t wait for a Hogsmeade weekend! I was thinking of exploring the Shrieking Shack. How horrible an idea is that? I’ll give you a chance to talk me out of it…_

_Yours,_

_Teddy Lupin_

—

Scorpius has heard of Professor Potter. Kreacher had gotten him a history book of the War that his father only hinted at. It had answered some of his questions and raised even more. But he was always careful about questions. He had read about the great Harry Potter, the saviour of the wizarding world, and to meet him in person… was a bit of a let-down.

He was shorter and thinner than Scorpius expected. There were seventh years that were almost double his height and width. His face was ordinary too, and his hair was a frizzy mess. He had shown up in class in rumpled teacher’s robes, running his fingers through his hair.

Scorpius heard the whispers of his classmates behind him. But the professor raised his hand until everyone fell silent.

“Before we begin, I’d like to take the chance to welcome you all to Gryffindor,” he spoke. “I hope it can become a home to you. Please don’t forget to look out for each other, and if you need help, you can talk to your prefects or you can come to me. That includes if you’re having trouble in a class, or outside it. Now…” He clapped his hands once. “Let me ask you what kind of defence spells do you think you’ll need as a witch or wizard?”

What followed was a spirited discussion that covered the definition of dark arts, the common threats inside a wizarding home, dealing with muggles and the possibility of discovery, and so on, until Scorpius was surprised to realize the bell had rung, and the class was over.

His head buzzed with new things in it, though he had noticed that Professor Potter had been patient in explaining both magical things to the muggleborns and muggle things to the magical-borns in class. He felt like neither and like both, so he appreciated it even more.

Every time he walked into a classroom, it was with bated breath, at least until he found Lucy—and sometimes Dominique—there as well. He had done his best to listen quietly and take notes and not draw anyone’s attention to himself. Even so, he felt eyes on him in this or that class, which made him want to fidget.

There was one room, however, that immediately felt like home: Professor Longbottom’s Greenhouse. The scent of dirt and green, growing things made him take a deep breath as soon as he stepped inside. He found himself smiling, though when he met the professor’s eyes, he ducked his head a little. But the professor smiled kindly at him and at every student in the room.

Their first session was on listing the rules of expected behaviour, and on naming tools that they will come to use. None of them felt magical in Scorpius’ hands.

The little garden inside the trunk was his favourite place to be in the world. Scorpius could name every plant in it and spent a lot of his childhood weeding and harvesting vegetables to grace their table. The weather inside the trunk was borrowed from a mild countryside, and it was similar in feel to the Greenhouse.

“We will spend most of our time in this room and in other Greenhouses that are spelled to a particular climate,” the professor was saying. “Hogwarts does have various outdoor gardens, some of which are out of bounds, so keep that in mind when you are exploring. This late in the year, we will focus on proper harvesting techniques first, though for some plants we have specimens in various stages of growth so you will learn to recognize them in any season…”

—

It felt strange to sit at the table inside the library and write a letter to his father a few flights of stairs away, but when Lucy and Dominique had taken out their special parchment and inkwells with special coloured ink, Scorpius could not think up a reasonable excuse.

He admired the glint of purple at the tip of Dominique’s quill, and the emerald green that Lucy was using, but refused their offers to share. Father would find it extravagant enough that he would waste supplies, though he could always say it was practice; his penmanship could use the work.

_Dear Father_ , he wrote, then almost leaving a blot when he could not find the words to continue. He had been spending almost every night after dinner telling his father about his classes. What else was there to say?

He looked out the window and wrote the first thing that came to mind.

_The sky at Hogwarts is blue and grey, and there are thick, dark clouds that they say means a storm is coming. From the Gryffindor Tower, you can see for miles and miles past the trees and the hills, and beyond that, the outline of mountains like purple shadows. Nestled in places are little houses with peaked roofs and square windows. They say muggles live there, and I sometimes wave at them even if I know they can’t see me…_

—

Draco straightened, wincing when his back cracked and his knees groaned. Weeding the garden was one of those tedious tasks that plagued his days; he was convinced Professor Sprout had been lying about the lack of an effective weeding spell, but hours and hours of fruitless research at the Hogwarts Library—and the Malfoy Library during summer—had persuaded him otherwise. Apparently, spells could not distinguish between such arbitrary categories as ‘weeds’ and ‘useful plants,’ and to attempt to do so could irrevocably damage an entire crop.

A flicker at the edge of his vision made him turn around too fast, and he blinked a little as the world tilted. There was an owl at the window, brown-flecked, with large yellow eyes and tufted ears. A letter was clasped in its right claw. Draco spared a thought to how the owl had gotten into the trunk, but its beady glare urged him onwards.

He walked inside, grabbing a small jar of seeds from the mantel to offer the impatient courier, before gingerly removing the envelope from its claw.

It circled the room once before flying out the open trunk lid. Draco peered through it, heart pounding, but all he could see was the carved ceiling of his son’s canopy bed. He walked up the stairs, hand too tight on the railing, and a few steps below, he reached out to close the lid with a too-loud thud. Then he sat down a little too fast on the step, his knees shaking.

He closed his eyes and focused on breathing for a long moment before he smoothed out the envelope crumpled in his grip and broke the seal to read his son’s words to him.

It was just a letter, with nothing of consequence in it. But Draco traced the _Dear Father_ with a contemplative finger. Scorpius had tried to describe the world outside as he saw it, maybe to share the experience of it with Draco. He thought of the row of Malfoy pensieves lining one of the Library Annexes now locked behind Ministry wards and out of his reach, maybe forever. He appreciated the gesture. Maybe the world outside was Safe after all.

Maybe.

Or maybe Scorpius was writing him a comforting fantasy designed to reassure, just like Draco did as a Hogwarts student, revising letters carefully to appease his own father. Draco looked down at his hands. How could he protect his son like this?

—

Teddy Lupin was standing on a chair and mimicking Mimosa Glenwood’s hair for Reasons when he saw his childhood mystery. The friend he thought he had made up in a fit of loneliness. His hair turned from the candy pink braid to a magenta afro in a heartbeat, as he pointed at the kid. “Who’s that?”

His best mate, Walther Cole craned his neck. “Some Gryffindor first year, I reckon.”

Teddy jumped off the chair and grabbed Walter by the robes. “What’s his name, Walt? Tell me or I might perish!”

Walther pushed his face away even as he lengthened his nose to something sharpish to sting his friend’s palm. “Quit that, you nob! Weren’t you at the Sorting?”

But Teddy had been too busy “mingling” in disguise among the Slytherins, picking up Very Important Gossip to actually pay attention to something as boring as a Sorting.

“His name’s Scorpius Black,” Mortimer Bone, the Hufflepuff Prefect informed him. “Which you should know since he’s probably related to you.”

“ _Oh._ ”

Well that’s interesting.

—

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

The last thing Scorpius expected this morning was being cornered by an older Hufflepuff on the way to the Great Hall. “Excuse me. I need to go,” he mumbled, managing to slip around the other student and walk away, but an arm stretched impossibly long to pluck at his collar. He whirled, mouth agape. The older student’s face shifted into something very like his own. Scorpius pointed at him, rendered utterly speechless.

The boy just beamed. “It _is_ you. I didn’t imagine it after all. I have _got_ to tell grand-mum about it; she said it was on account of me losing my toy and inventing a reason for it…”

Scorpius blinked up at him. “Teddy?”

“Yes!” The other boy practically shouted. “And your name’s Scorpius Black. Did you know I’m also a Black? Well my grand-mum was born a Black, but my last name’s Lupin, on account of my dad actually marrying my mum a few days before I was born, or else I’d be a Tonks, which is from my grand-da. So anyway, that means we’re related, probably. Maybe I’ll call you Cousin Scorpius! That has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Did you give yourself an extra lung to say all that?” Scorpius asked bemusedly.

Teddy just clapped him on the shoulders and ran off, shouting. “I’ve got some letters to write. Anyway, don’t disappear on me again, squirt!”

Scorpius shook his head, not sure what to think.

—

_Dear Harry,_

_I found him! The strange little kid I was telling you about! Do you remember three years ago when I spent the night over at your place? He’s REAL! Anyway, his name’s Scorpius Black, so I’m writing grand-mum to ask about him. Or maybe his name is on that Tapestry in your house. Do you think you can ask Kreacher about it?_

_Yours,_

_Teddy Lupin_

Harry’s brows were drawn together. He remembered Teddy’s story about meeting a friend in the attic. He also remembered the way Kreacher had stilled, eyes blinking, before saying, “You is having too much sweets at night Young Master Teddy. That sounds like a good dream.”

And when he had gone up the next day with Teddy, there was nobody there, so he had thought Kreacher had been right.

But if hadn’t been a dream… That meant Scorpius Black, his _son_ , had been living under his own roof. And he hadn’t known about it.

But he knew who would have known.

Harry summoned his house elf, pure magic crackling the air in his quarters like the beginnings of a storm.

Kreacher appeared with a pop, dressed in a blue tea towel. The house elf met his eyes for a long moment, then straightened to his full height before saying, “I see you’ve finally met Young Master Black.”


End file.
